Three-Card Monte by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Page A

statement of a witness. I quote verbatim the statement of Professor Antonius Snijders: ‘In my laptop, I have something that will destroy Professor Watanabe.’ Do you recall these words?”
    â€œNo,” Massimo said after the usual interlude, noting that Watanabe’s face was becoming even stiffer.
    â€œWould you care to speculate as to what these particular contents could have been, or what subject they might have concerned?”
    â€œNo,” Massimo repeated, trusting to Koichi, but unable to help noticing that the “no” uttered by Watanabe the second time, while definitively negative in substance, had seemed a little clearer and longer in form than the previous one.
    â€œGiven the circumstances, I must ask you if you have ever had any reason to wish for the death of Professor Asahara.”
    Massimo translated, and Koichi looked at him over his glasses with a worried air. Don’t make me ask this question, his nervous face said in Esperanto. There was a moment of embarrassed silence, made all the heavier by the fact that, as far as Massimo could tell, Watanabe had understood the question perfectly well.
    â€œPlease translate,” Fusco said, somewhat impatiently.
    â€œ
Watanabe gakucho
. . . ” Koichi began, bowing as low as a skier, but was silenced by Watanabe with what amounted to an order, curt and peremptory, uttered in an English as bad as it was threatening:
    â€œNo nid transration!”
    There was indeed no need of translation. Either of the question, or of the answer.
    In the two minutes that followed, according to what Koichi, still bowing like an oscilloscope, passed on to Massimo, a volcano in the shape of Watanabe explained, in a tone that overcame all language barriers, the many ways in which this question offended him, as a professor and as a Japanese, concluding that he had already being insulted enough that morning and that he had no intention of answering any more stupid questions. With this, the acute phase of the eruption being over, the Japanese luminary turned and left the room without even closing the door behind him, leaving the heterogeneous quartet of inquisitors in a state of visible embarrassment.
    â€œFrankly, I’d have preferred it if he’d tried to hit me,” Fusco said in a tone of forced indifference after a few seconds, without waiting for Massimo’s translation. “Galan, since the door’s already open, go get the next one, and God help us!”
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    The following witness, according to Fusco’s schedule and as confirmed vocally by the person himself, was Dr. Shin-Ichi Kubo, in other words one of Asahara’s three close colleagues at the conference, being a member of the same department as the dead man. The thirty-five-year-old Kubo, too, was impeccably dressed in gray, but unlike Watanabe (apart from being taller than a night table), did not keep his eyes fixed on Fusco but stared down at the floor, as if he did not have the strength to look up. It was obvious, though, from the bags under his eyes and his hangdog look, that Asahara’s death had been a terrible blow to him. He too was asked the ritual questions, which he answered simply, still looking at the floor as if reading the answers from the tiles. Of course he knew Professor Asahara: he had been a colleague of his for three years, ever since he had moved to Waseda, the university in Tokyo where he worked. No, he didn’t know that the professor had had myasthenia. No, Asahara did not suffer from depression, or at least had never shown any signs of it. Yes, he knew that Asahara had said those words: they had been reported to him by another colleague, Goro Kimura. He had not heard them himself, because he had not been present at the morning coffee break: since he was supposed to be giving rather an important presentation on Wednesday, he had stayed in the conference hall with his laptop during all of the coffee breaks, finishing his